by Kaki Warner
“This time? Almost two years. Time before that, five.” He gave a lopsided grin that showed tobacco-stained teeth. “Attitude unbecoming. It’s the German in me. No tolerance for rank stupidity.”
They sat in silence as the fire burned down from blue flames to red coals. Down the valley, a pack of coyotes howled their displeasure at the loss of their easy pickings. Off to the east, the cattle smoldered below a veil of smoke that cast a brownish haze over the rising moon.
“My thanks to you and your men for helping out today,” Declan said after a while.
Guthrie nodded and sent a stream of tobacco juice into the coals where it hissed and sizzled into steam. “Seen a lot of Indian raids in my time. Some worse than others.” He studied Declan, his cheek bunching as he chewed, his eyes reflecting the orange of the dying fire. “This one seems personal.”
“It is.” Declan explained about Lone Tree, his stint in jail, and the Arapaho’s intent to kill him and his kin to salve his damaged honor. “Until he’s stopped, I can’t stay here and put my family at risk.”
“We’re to scout the Parker place,” the soldier reminded him.
“All you’ll find there is charred wood and two new graves.”
“So I hear.” Guthrie scratched his chin where an old scar showed pale in the dark stubble of his beard. “I guess, since there’s nothing left to draw the Indians back to their place, I could leave some men here.”
“I’d appreciate that.”
“So ordered.” Bracing his hands on his knees, the lieutenant pushed himself to his feet. “You want, I’ll have my men dig you a new well. No telling what all those redskins dropped in there.”
“Thanks.”
“We leave at first light. Back the day after.” He spit into the fire pit, nodded to Declan, then turned and walked into the darkness.
Thirteen
Declan sat for a moment longer, then rose and stretched the kinks out of his back. The moon had risen above the bands of smoke that hung in the air, and in the silvered light he could see the tents of the troopers lined up not far from the creek and a string of horses tied between two tall pines.
After pissing into the fire, he kicked dirt over what coals still lingered, then headed to the house, wondering where he’d sleep. What remained of the splintered settee had been added to the cattle pyre. He’d brought no bedroll, hoping he would be sleeping in his own bed, and anything left in the barn had burned. Hell.
He checked on the boys, found them sprawled on the porch, Rusty between them, all three snoring. Stepping over them, he picked up the saddlebags he’d left on the porch earlier and went inside.
Moonlight lit his way through the ransacked parlor and into the kitchen. He stopped at the foot of the stairs and listened. No sound from the loft. But he pictured her as she’d been that morning last month on the way to the ranch when he’d awakened her with a cup of coffee . . . curled on her side, clothes rumpled, straw tangled in her hair. He smiled, remembering how cantankerous she’d been, and wondered if she would be as upset with him now if he went up there and woke her up.
The idea of it made his heart thump in his chest.
Now’s not the time, he reminded himself. She was tired. He was tired. It would be better for both of them later.
He started up the stairs anyway, telling himself he was just checking that she was okay and to see if there was any water left so he could wash.
Moonlight shone through the shredded curtains on the broken loft window, sending long silvery tentacles across the plank floor to drape the bed in pale light and rounded shadow. She had kicked off the covers and was curled on the dark side of the bed, facing toward the door. She lay as he had pictured her, on her side, hands tucked under her cheek, knees drawn up. Except this time, instead of a rumpled dress, she wore a white gown that covered all but her hands and toes. Her braid had come loose and hair spilled over the pillow in soft waves and tangled curls. She breathed the deep, measured breaths of deep sleep.
He stood beside the bed, wondering at the impact this woman had already made on his life. He hadn’t intended that. He’d just wanted a simple, uncomplicated woman to help with the chores and ride herd on his children. Not a companion, not even a lover, and especially not someone who befuddled him and made him laugh.
Instead, he got Edwina Ladoux. Miss Priss.
His Ed.
A sudden need to touch her almost overwhelmed him, and he had to clench his fist to keep from slipping his hand under that hem and running his fingers up her thigh. He wanted to taste her skin and feel her heat around him. He wanted to climb in beside her and wrap her hair around his hands and whisper in her ear that “later” had come.
Christ. He was acting like a green kid.
Turning away in disgust, he almost tripped over a mound of skirts and petticoats piled on the floor. He gathered them up and laid them over the foot rail, then without looking toward the bed, continued into the water closet.
Another petticoat. Hairpins. An underthing so sheer it hardly made a lump on the floor. He stared down at it, his heart thumping again.
Slowly he bent and picked it up.
Silky. Soft. Her scent still clung to it—something sweet and flowery. Roses, maybe. It looked ridiculously incongruous in his big hand and weighed no more than a breath. Carefully, he hung it on a hook, hung the petticoat beside it, then stood frowning. They looked alien to him, hanging where his clothing had always hung, in the room he alone had used for the last four years. A sudden and disquieting thought arose in his mind that this was no longer his space, his room, his house. He was the intruder here. The one who didn’t fit.
The hip tub still held her bathwater, cool now and mostly clear except for a thin soap residue floating on top. Dropping his hat on top of the saddlebags, he stripped and stepped in. He found a small bar of soap in a dish on the lip of the tub and dipped it in the water. As he lathered up, he realized the flowery scent came from the soap. Definitely roses. He used it anyway, needing to rid himself of the taint of putrid meat.
When he finished, he climbed out and dried off. Digging shirt and trousers from his saddlebags, he quickly pulled them on, hoping that being fully dressed would calm the turbulent thoughts circling in his head. After kicking his dirty clothes into the corner, he put on his hat, picked up his saddlebags and boots, and stepped barefoot around the screen.
Ed hadn’t moved. Her breathing hadn’t changed. The need to touch was still there, and this time, he couldn’t make himself walk away.
Defeated, he set down the boots and saddlebags, hung his hat on the bedpost, and gently pulled the quilt over her, making sure it covered her to her neck. Then with a weary sigh, he lowered himself on top of it, stretched out, and closed his eyes.
Edwina awoke to a shout, then the thump of boots on the stairs.
With a gasp, she lurched upright and reached for the covers, then shrieked when she grabbed a hand instead.
Declan, sprawled fully clothed on top of the quilt, blinked up at her. “Huh?”
Still trembling with fright, she punched his shoulder. “You scared the dickens out of me, you big lump! What are you doing in here?”
He rubbed a hand over his face, then let it fall back to the quilt. “What?”
A voice shouted up the staircase. “Pa? You up there?” Joe Bill.
Edwina jerked the covers higher and glared at her husband. “Tell him you’re not.” Then realizing what she’d said, she clapped a hand over his mouth and yelled, “He’s not up here. Go away.”
“Then where is he?”
“I don’t know. Go away.”
Muttering. Retreating footsteps.
She yanked her hand away, flung hair out of her eyes, and looked down to catch Declan in the middle of a yawn, his lids dropping.
She shoved at him.
His eyes opened, wandered for a moment, then focused on hers. He grinned sleepily up at her. “Ed.”
“Get up!”
The grin spread. “I am up.”
He lifted his head to look down the long length of his body. “See?”
On reflex, she did, then jerked her gaze back to his. Up, indeed. She punched him again. “What are you doing in my bed?”
“It’s my bed. It’s where I sleep.”
“No, it isn’t. You slept here? Tell me you didn’t sleep here. All night?” And she hadn’t even noticed?
“The settee is busted and I didn’t bring a bedroll. Now stop hitting me and kiss me good morning.”
“Why didn’t you bring a bedroll?”
“I didn’t think I’d need one.” That drowsy grin again.
Edwina’s mouth opened, but before she could think of anything to say, Joe Bill’s voice came up the stairs.
“Pa! I know you’re up there. I heard you talking.”
Edwina sent her husband a warning look.
He yawned.
“The soldiers want to talk to you, Pa. You coming down, or not?”
“Okay, okay,” he yelled. With a deep sigh, he sat up and set his bare feet on the floor. “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.” Scratching his head with one hand, he bent to pull a sock from his saddlebag with the other.
“I knew you were up there.” More muttering. Footfalls, cut off by the bang of the kitchen door Declan had just re-hung.
“Well, I hope you’re satisfied,” Edwina hissed at her husband’s back.
“Satisfied?” Declan shoved his foot into a boot, paused, then shook his head. “Not hardly.” He resumed shoving and tugging.
“What were you doing in here?”
“Sleeping.”
She watched muscles flex beneath his stretched shirt as he worked on the other boot, still shocked that they had slept in the same bed and she hadn’t even noticed. Had he touched her? Done something to her while she was sleeping? The notion sent a shiver of . . . something . . . through her that made her nerves quiver and jump in odd places.
“Did you . . .” The thought faded away when he rose to his feet, distracting her with all his yawning and stretching and scratching. He seemed especially tall this morning. Bigger than usual. Her gaze swept up the back of his long, sturdy legs, over his wrinkled shirt to the big hands ruffling through his dark unruly hair until it poked out every which way.
Had those hands been on her? She had always been a sound sleeper, but surely she would have known if they had.
Dropping those suspect hands, he began tucking in his shirt. “Did I what?”
It took her a second to remember. “Did you . . . do anything?”
“About what?”
“You know.”
He frowned back at her over his shoulder.
She brushed a tangle of hair out of her eyes and pulled the covers higher. “While I was sleeping. Did you . . . you know.”
Befuddlement gave way to laughter. He finished tucking in his shirt, then turned, leaned over, and planted his fists on the mattress beside her. “Are you asking if I commenced consummation while you were sleeping?”
Edwina pressed back against the log headboard. Rattled by his nearness, she checked for dirt under the nails of the hand not holding the covers to her chin. “I’m a sound sleeper.”
“So you don’t know if I did this?” He reached under the covers and put his hand around her ankle.
She tried to pull it back.
He moved his hand up her calf.
“Stop that.”
“You don’t remember this?” Above her knee now, his palm roughened by calluses, his fingers almost spanning her leg. “Or this?”
So distracted was she by what his hand was doing, she didn’t see his head come down until his mouth pressed against hers. She froze, her pulse hammering in her temples, her skin tingling where his beard stubble raked gently against her chin, then along her jaw as he brushed his lips across her cheek to her temple. Why did he smell like roses?
Under the covers, his hand slid higher.
She thought she should tell him to stop but her throat wouldn’t work.
“Trust me, Ed,” he whispered into her ear. “You’ll remember.” Then with a gentle pat on her bare fanny, he straightened, lifted his hat from the bedpost, and settled it on his head. “Later, wife. That’s a promise.”
Then grinning, he turned, ducked under the beam over the landing, and clumped down the stairs.
Still smiling, Declan stepped out the kitchen door, pleased to note that during the night the wind had risen to clear away most of the stink. There were still tiny wisps of smoke curling above the blackened pile where the carcasses had been, but the huge mound had been reduced to a fraction of its original size, and what smoke hung in the air smelled of wood smoke, not charred meat.
“Morning, Sergeant,” he called as Guthrie’s next in command left the group of soldiers standing with Amos around a small cook fire and walked toward him. “The lieutenant already gone?”
“Yes, sir. About two hours ago.”
Sergeant Quinlan was a tall man with a head as hairless as a cannonball. To counter that lack, he cultivated an impressive mustache that he coated with pine resin and sheep tallow to keep the ends curled tight as a pig’s tail. Joe Bill, having a keen interest in facial hair since he couldn’t grow any yet, had related all the particulars over supper. Declan wondered how the man could work his rifle without getting tangled up in the lever.
As the sergeant approached, Declan stepped off the kitchen stoop to meet him. “Got any coffee over there?”
“Yes, sir, we do. Your man just started a new pot.”
“Had breakfast yet?”
“Yes, sir. And please thank your wife for the bacon she sent over last night. The men sure appreciated it.”
As they walked toward the campfire, Quinlan said, “The lieutenant left orders my men were to dig you a new well. After you get your coffee, maybe you’ll show us where, so we can get started.”
There weren’t a lot of options, Declan decided, a half hour later, as he stood by the old well and looked around. They could dig upflow of the old well, he guessed, and hope the fouled water didn’t backwash into the new well. Or he could move higher up, but that would put it farther from the house, which would be a problem in freezing weather.
“You might find water up there,” Quinlan offered, nodding toward a stand of aspen about fifty yards up the slope that rose on the west side of the house. “Where you find aspen, you usually find water.”
“We tried up there. But whatever seam is feeding those aspen must split off somewhere between here and there. We couldn’t find it.”
“Wait up, gentlemen,” a cheery voice called.
Declan turned to see Ed coming toward them, holding a cup in one hand and pinning a wide-brimmed straw bonnet to her head with the other. The crisp morning breeze sent untied streamers fluttering out behind her like flocking birds and molded her skirt tight around her hips and legs.
Long legs. Smooth and firm. A butt as warm and soft as a new foal’s belly. His hand closed tight at the memory.
“Good morning, Sergeant. Isn’t it a grand day?”
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
“What are you doing out so early?” Declan asked as she stopped beside him. He’d expected her to start on the parlor this morning.
“I’ve come to help. Hold this while I secure my hat. The wind is atrocious today.” Thrusting the cup into his hands, she lifted her arms.
He watched how the motion pulled the fabric of her dress tight across her breasts and wondered how he was going to make it until later.
“There now,” she said, once she’d re-pinned and retied. She retrieved the cup, took a sip, then licked coffee off her top lip. “Joe Bill should be here with the sticks in just a moment, then we can get started.”
“At what?” Declan knew she was a hard worker, but surely she didn’t intend to dig beside the men.
She looked up at him from beneath the floppy brim of her hat. “Amos said you were digging a new well.”
“I am.”
“Where?
”
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“Exactly. Which is why I’m here.” She must have seen his confusion. “I find water. It’s one of my few talents.” She smiled reassuringly at the sergeant. “And I’m very good at it, even if I do say so myself.”
Declan frowned. There was a reason it was called water “witching.” It was unnatural. Illogical. On a par with rainmaking and hair restorers and evangelical swooning. He’d thought Ed too smart for such foolishness.
“You’re a douser?” the sergeant asked.
“I am.”
Declan snorted. “It’s bunkum.”
“It most certainly is not. And I’ll prove it.” She nodded past his shoulder. “Here comes Joe Bill. You’ll see.”
“Will these do?” Joe Bill held out several slim switches as he approached Ed. “It’s the best I could find.”
Ed took them from his grip. “They’re forked?”
“All but the one. And I skinned the forked ends like you said.”
“You’re sure they’re willow wood?”
Joe Bill muttered something.
“Excellent.” Ed chose two from the bunch, studied them closely—for what, Declan had no idea—then made a final selection. “Prepare to be amazed, gentlemen.” Gripping the forked ends in her bare hands, she turned her wrists until her knuckles faced up, her thumbs out, and the stick was pointed halfway between earth and sky. Then she commenced marching.
And marching. Back and forth, back and forth, her brow furrowed in concentration, her steps measured and slow.
“I told you she’s crazy, Pa.”
Declan didn’t respond, but he was beginning to agree.
“I saw a douser once in Missouri,” Quinlan said as they watched Ed work her way slowly up the slope in a crisscross pattern like a hound coursing for a scent. “Don’t have the gift myself, and I damn sure can’t explain it, but I saw it work with my own eyes.”
“Crazy as Cooter Brown,” Joe Bill said.
Halfway up the slope, Ed stopped, rotated her neck and shoulders, shook out her arms, then started again.